


Piazza della Signoria, 1504

by Punxutawney



Category: True Blood
Genre: Firenze | Florence, Gen, Italy, Renaissance, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-20
Updated: 2009-08-20
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punxutawney/pseuds/Punxutawney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric and his maker observe a work of art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piazza della Signoria, 1504

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at LJ in 2009.

Eric rested his eyes on the smooth skin of marble, a body more perfect and more dead than he would ever be. The figure in front of him stood confident, self-assured, and yet somehow expectant; anticipating and eager, almost hungry. The white eyes were turned away, seeing something he couldn't.

"They call it a rebirth," Godric mused beside him, "but they will never revive the art they're imitating. Even if they could, they wouldn't want to."

Eric let his gaze drop to look at Godric, who was eyeing the statue with a peculiar little smile on his lips. He regarded most everything human-made with contempt it seemed, and this object was hardly an exception. For someone who nursed such an indifference towards the human race, Godric liked to observe its ways and talk about it a lot. Eric allowed him to continue without interruption, knowing his words weren't needed. His maker had developed a bit of a habit of making condemning speeches about the state of human culture.

"If these artists could see their ancestors' work in truth, they'd cover their sensitive eyes in horror. They wouldn't understand its wildness, its beauty. They insist on walking in the footsteps of the Greeks and the Romans, yet they've only seen a shadow of what they once beheld." The laconic tone was laced with something resembling pity.

"This white stone only vaguely reveals the human perception that their own, soft flesh isn't enough for them. The colourlessness, the dullness... the _purity_ is still their ideal." Godric shook his head a little, almost as if he had the right to feel disappointed by the sight before his eyes, as if he had been personally let down.

"Even if they find a trace of the life that was once painted on, they – they'll _wash_ it away."

Eric felt his maker's mind shifting. Godric was restless tonight. He himself felt most of all full and content, keenly aware of the blood coursing through his freshly-nourished body. Even though he didn't need it, he enjoyed a deep breath of the night air that still carried the memory of a crowd.

A big celebration had animated the city of Florence earlier, its centre being the piazza on which they were currently standing. Tonight was too dark for mortal eyes. The late summer moon was hidden, the human citizens with their lights gone home. An occasional yell there, another here, footsteps and laughter in the shadows – the city never slept entirely, but the newly unveiled marble statue had no other companion but the two vampires, who had, at Godric's request, arrived especially for the occasion.

"They have burned a great enemy of ours," Godric had explained mysteriously somewhere in the woods of France, somewhere on the other side of the mountains. "There must be something at least resembling sense in the good people of Florence." Eric had contented himself with this statement, knowing better than to question his maker's wishes when they were as adamant as this.

Florence was indeed full of life waiting to be sucked out of trembling, ecstatic bodies. As Eric had discovered, the city was still recovering from years of religious tyranny, and the regained freedom had been heartily embraced. A couple of strange men who enjoyed nightlife and wanted to share a room in a tavern raised no eyebrows, which felt like a cool breeze on Eric's skin after their travels up north. It was getting harder and harder to stay satisfied in small towns, whose watchful old families kept a close eye on their daughters and sons.

Whereas here, in the warm heart of Italy, it was not unusual for the youth to escape their parents and wander through the city streets in the evening, as easy and sometimes willing prey. It wasn't unheard of that young women would run away with lovers to avoid unwanted marriages. Eric had almost befriended a maiden surely no more than fifteen, who shrieked in delight as his fangs traced the eagerly pulsing vein in her slender neck, and who would have offered all her father's earthly possessions to him if he'd only make her his companion.

"I'd rather die in your arms every night than marry that dreadful old man I'm promised to," she had confessed with utmost devotion, her brown eyes wide and filling with tears as he gently wound his long fingers around her neck, tightening his grip until he heard a satisfying crackle.

"One night is enough," he murmured into her ear, lapping up the rest of the blood her slowing heart pumped out of her, the taste of the Tuscan sun on his tongue.

It was almost a shame to dispose of her, and so many others, but Godric had decided they couldn't have rumours spreading about, not yet. He wanted to see the new statue in peace. He had heard it was the work of a promising human artist.

And here they were now, before the town hall, staring up at the statue of a young man who despite his large size appeared graceful. The tower soared into the sky behind him. For all they knew, a lonely, imprisoned soul might have been staring at them from the depths of the dark windows.

"What did that life look like?" Eric asked, honestly curious. There were few secrets between him and his maker, but Godric didn't talk about his human years too often. Of course, he had been a vampire for so long that his human life must have felt like the first blink of a newborn's eye compared to the rest of his existence, but Eric too had been a vampire for centuries and he could still remember. He didn't _feel_ human anymore, but he could observe his older self as from afar, almost like another man, and he could even _understand_ that other man to an extent. Surely Godric felt something similar, something this sight had triggered in him.

"It was all colours, bright and deep – back then, this man's lips and cheeks would have been painted red as blood, to show that this truly was an image of a once powerful king." Godric had closed his eyes. His skin glowed like the white marble in the weak moonlight.

"His eyes would be blue, like yours, bluer than the sky, his hair golden..." He drifted off. If Eric didn't know better, he would have thought the older vampire sounded nostalgic.

"But don't you agree there is beauty in his form?" Eric asked after a while of studying his maker's closed face in awaiting silence. "A layer of paint is only a distraction. You don't need to see the colour of his cheeks to know he's young and alive and strong, that he believes in himself. It's in the way he holds himself. He looks like he knows what he's doing."

Godric opened his eyes and glanced at him, the smile reappearing to curl the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, they've got to you, haven't they?" Godric sighed with an exaggerated air of an older man. "This city is ruining your savage ways." He looked at the eternally young king again, licking his lips slowly, to Eric a sight more interesting than the statue which he had contemplated enough for one night. As stoic as Godric was these days, there were still small signs that betrayed his hunger.

"Perhaps there's truth to your words," Godric finally admitted. "The colours of life are just a thin layer, easily removed. The bronze and the marble underneath remain in their form." He shifted his weight from one leg to another, perhaps unconsciously imitating the pose of the marble king.

"And still, the colours make all the difference." Godric said this slowly, and in his voice there was a touch of uncertainty, which was rare and unsettling. Again, Eric felt something moving in his maker's mind, something he couldn't fully comprehend.

Hunger he could understand, and he knew Godric had yet to feed tonight. It was a problem easily solved, something Eric was happy to concentrate on. He laid a hand on a slight shoulder, seeking contact with the familiar need.

"Then let us go paint our mouths red."

Godric's eyes were almost as pale as David's, but when they met Eric's gaze, they were more hungry for slaying than the king's could ever have been.

**Author's Note:**

> Having ruled Florence with religious passion for over three years, Dominican preacher Girolamo Savonarola was finally burned in the city's main square in 1498 after he, not erroneously, accused the Pope of corruption. Michelangelo's David was unveiled in the same square in the September of 1504. It was later moved to a museum, and a replica now stands at its place.


End file.
